


FeatherFall

by TintagelCastle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse, Armageddon 2: Electric Boogaloo, BAMF Aziraphale, Crowley Pines like it's an Olympic Sport, Crowley is emotionally constipated, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Gabriel is having a Feeling, Humans are Bastards and Crowley loves them, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Nathaniel is a sweetie I promise, Protective Crowley, True love conquers all (Bitch), WARNING IT'S GONNA GET A BIT GORY IN THE LATER CHAPTERS JUST A HEADS UP, author blends both book and show canon and sifts the bits she likes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TintagelCastle/pseuds/TintagelCastle
Summary: It's been five years since the Apocalypse was averted. Both Heaven and Hell are gathering their armies to once more vanquish the world and the world is gathering itself right back. Adam Young can feel the storm clouds gathering and isn't sure he can stop it this time. Meanwhile in Soho, an Angel begins to wonder whether he has truly picked the right side, and a Demon desperately searches for something Heaven doesn't want found.This has exactly nothing to do with bumbling shop assistant Nathaniel Skyler, but the universe seems intent on dragging him into it anyway.





	1. Prologue: Nathaniel

**Author's Note:**

> For Daria. She knows why.

_“The man who lies asleep will never waken Fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream. The traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.”_  
-Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

 

If you took every word in every language spoken throughout human history, you probably couldn’t find anything else to describe Nathaniel Skyler other than _Nice and Ordinary_. 

He wasn’t particularly handsome, smart or talented in any field outside of being Nice and Ordinary. He had one of those souls that bursts forth into the world already comfortably settled in middle age and gives off the complacent air that it is merely waiting patiently for the physical body to catch up. Indeed, middle age seemed to suit him admirably; for there was never anyone under the age of fifty who had such a fondness for beige clothing. 

Nathaniel’s childhood upbringing was not incredibly noteworthy either; born in a little suburb outside London to a Welsh mother and an English father, he grew up in a comfortable, secure little house where nothing untoward ever happened aside from the odd childish scrap. His mother, a mousy little receptionist at some big-name hotel nearer the bustle of the capital, used to ruffle his hair affectionately whenever he actively avoided said scraps. 

“Good boy,” she would say, “Wouldn’t want to worry your father.”

Not that his father would worry anyway. Mr Paul Skyler was the sort of man who didn’t really acknowledge children as people until they did something naughty. To him, it was perfectly alright if little Nate got into fights with the other children, so long as he didn’t _start_ them. Wouldn’t want a young ruffian under his nice little semi-detached roof. He was an active member of the neighbourhood watch; it wouldn’t do if his son wasn’t a nice and ordinary child. Though, do not get the impression that Paul didn’t love his son, dearest readers, he did. He loved his son very much. He loved his wife very much. His wife loved both him and their son very much. Nathaniel loved his parents very much.

Nice and ordinary. 

School life wasn’t particularly hard nor was it too easy. Nathaniel sailed comfortably, safely, with slightly-above-average grades and a little circle of friends whose names quickly faded from memory as he progressed through academic life. University was nice and ordinary, and he had a few nice and ordinary girlfriends to take on dates and hold hands with by the river. 

If Nathaniel had one odd habit, it was his strange way of rolling his shoulders. It wasn’t a conscious action, but rather the sort of rolling stretches a person does when they finally drop that heavy bag they’ve been carrying around all day. Maybe it was an old schoolyard injury, maybe it was something he’d picked up from an adult, maybe it was just his way, who knows? Certainly not Nathaniel, as it was entirely possible he never noticed he was doing it himself. Other than that, he also acquired the reputation of being nice. Nice in the way a slightly senile old uncle is nice, genial and placid, but not directed at anybody in particular. It’s what got him his job in accountancy. A nice, ordinary job with the local insurance firm that lots of people ended up working for, even if they didn’t plan it. It suited Nathaniel just fine.

(However, if anybody had actually _bothered_ to ask Nathaniel what he wanted from life; a small voice, echoing scraped knees and a head full of boyish pursuits, would have sheepishly told you that he’d always fancied himself an astronaut. Nobody ever asked him though, so the matter went unsaid.)

Years passed, in the slow way years tend to do. On and on Nathaniel meandered through his life until his mother fell ill. Hannah Skyler gently slipped from this world from a uniquely horrible strain of ovarian cancer, the type that slinks up and takes you by surprise. After that, his father was never quite the same. Ever the dutiful son, Nathaniel quietly resigned from his comfortable position to look after the ailing Paul until Paul followed his wife into oblivion three years later.

Nathaniel, through his grief, found himself at a loss. He felt his roots firmly planted into his nice little town, all his life had passed in this nice little town. Something within him stirred, and suddenly he didn’t want nice and little anymore. He wanted _big_ , he wanted _crowded_ and _loud_.

Inner London seemed a good bet. Soho maybe.

Off he went, applying for jobs and not quite landing anything. With his nice and sensible savings, he’d applied to rent a small flat down one of the side streets. Being the older bachelor that he was, he didn’t encounter any real difficulty (aside from one landlord who seemed rather adamant that Nathaniel was going to bring several young boys home to do ‘dirty’. Nathaniel had been quick to reassure him that he would do no such thing thank you very much) in finding somewhere. It was a bare little place, but nothing a few books and family photos couldn’t fix. He felt that perhaps this whim was probably a bad idea, but that voice of doubt was shouted down by another that urged that a change of scenery was good for him. Maybe he should do something drastic, write the Great English novel (like the Great American Novel, but with more jaffa cakes involved) or something…

Nathaniel never wrote a novel.

Instead, he befriended a wonderful woman living on the floor below who went by the name of Mrs Warwicke. Mrs Warwicke was also of Welsh descent but had a Nigerian father and had grown up between Ibadan and Swansea. As a result, her voice was a delightful blend of the two accents, something Nathaniel loved to hear. She was never referred to by another other name aside from ‘Mrs Warwicke’, though no mention of a husband was ever made by herself or her peers. Nathaniel came to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps he had died but did the proper English thing and just politely never brought it up. She was a motherly sort of woman, who looked upon the nice and ordinary middle-aged man and instantly decided that he was just a boy that she, being his senior by nearly four years, was just going to have to look after. As a result, Nathaniel found himself being invited over for tea pretty much weekly for nearly six months before she sat him down and offered him a job.

“At your bakery?” He’d asked, a little stupidly. 

“My _patisserie_ ”

“Sorry, your patisserie.” He corrected himself, blushing a little. “I’d love to Mrs Warwicke, but, um, I haven’t the first clue how to…er, _patisser_.”

She had clucked her tongue affectionately and swatted at him with a warm brown hand. “Don’t you worry Nate, I’ll teach you. I see you sometimes,” she added, somewhat conspiratorially, “The way you stare into space sometimes. Like you’re not sure what to do. You need a new start Nate, come and work for me. I don’t pay much-”

“I don’t need much.” Answered Nathaniel with a smile.

So that’s how Nathaniel Skyler, nice and ordinary, found himself as a trainee in Mrs Warwicke’s Soho patisserie. It had been a nightmare, teaching him the basics from scratch. His cakes were often second-rate and ugly, but he proved that he had a real knack for talking to people. Customers liked his ‘nice uncle’ image and he found that he liked it too. Mrs Warwicke would often meet him outside her door, and they would go to work together, walking home together when they closed up for the night.

It was a nice, ordinary little life. It suited Nathaniel Skyler just _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact; the working title for this story was 'Armageddon 2: Electric Boogaloo'.


	2. Crowley

_Three Years Ago_

Every now and again, Crowley would have a Wile. 

Nothing _terrible_ per say, just the odd temptation here and there. He’d said before that nothing Hell could come up with would ever match the sheer ingenuity of what the human race could do to itself, and he stood by that. That said, he wasn’t above being petty. 

“Roadworks on the M25?” Aziraphale tutted at him over their dinner. “Really?”

“What? I’m not the one actually digging anything!” Crowley protested smugly, spearing a piece of broccoli with his fork. He had to remind himself to eat politely when in view of others, it had caused Aziraphale quite the fright the first time he saw Crowley unhinge his jaw to swallow a whole plate. Chalk it up to his serpent nature, he’d chuckled. Aziraphale had assured him he’d get used to the sight, but Crowley couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t put some unsuspecting dear into hysterics if he forgot himself. 

“Still,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, deftly wiping his lips with a napkin, “you’re going to regret it.”

“How’s that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his teacup “Need I remind you Crowley, that you often like to drive your car around London? That you _yourself_ live in London?”

Crowley frowned. He _hadn’t_ considered that, actually.

“You totally could have thwarted me if you’d wanted it.” He pointed out. Ever since their respective superiors had decided neither of them were worth the effort, Crowley had, generally, been having fun. Being a nuisance was fun. It was even more fun when Aziraphale tried to balance it out, trying to restore some sort of order following their Armageddon derailment. Crowley was pretty sure nobody Above or Below was keeping score on them anymore, so maybe his Wiles weren’t so major anymore, in the grand scheme of things.

Turns out, neither was Aziraphale’s Thwarting. 

“I _could_ ,” he began thoughtfully, “But I also said something about evil containing the seeds of its own destruction? Why bother thwarting your wiles, dear, when it’ll be much funnier when you inevitably get caught in traffic?”

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fair point. He smirked a little and raised a hand for more alcohol. “Not very divine of you Angel, letting my Wiles go un-Thwarted.” 

“It’s not is it?” was the amused answer, “Though I don’t suppose anybody’s paying attention anymore are they?”

The implication remained unsaid, hanging in the air between them. The soft tinkle of the Ritz’s piano carried on, oblivious at their sudden disquiet. Crowley saw Aziraphale’s eyes glance quickly upwards.

“I haven’t heard anything since the trial.” The angel admitted quietly, as though he feared raising his voice would bring the Heavenly Host barrelling down on him at any second, perhaps it would. “Have you?”

“Not a peep.” Crowley replied, at a more normal volume. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had completely given up on fearing his superiors Below. Fuck them, he’d shout about them if he wanted. “They think I’m immune to Holy Water, scared the shit outta them I can tell you. I think they’re too frightened of us to be any real threat.”

“Oh I do hope so. I heard your, um, _colleague_ Hastur was ever so upset with you about you killing his friend.”

“Hastur doesn’t have any friends.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Don’t _worry_ Angel,” Crowley assured him, voice light with a confidence he wasn’t sure he really felt, “It’s been, what, three years? I doubt they’ll bother with us _now.”_

**********************  
_One Year Ago_

The ducks glided lazily across the surface of the water, unbothered by the man in dark glasses glaring at them. 

He’d been sat on this bench for _hours_ now. It wasn’t exactly like he’d demanded Aziraphale to meet him at the park for lunch, but he thought the angel would at least invite himself along regardless. The light was beginning to fade from the day, leaving tendrils of gold clashing with grey amongst the grass. He hadn’t heard anything from Aziraphale all day, though this in itself wasn’t too unusual. After all, they’d gone centuries without speaking before, if Crowley couldn’t deal with one day he'd feel less like a demon and more like some simpering teenage girl whose crush has stood her up. 

Crowley was _not_ being stood up. Crowley wasn’t on a date, of all damned things. He was a scary demon from the Pit and did not go around mooning after angels. 

Yet here he was, mooning away. 

A mallard squawked somewhere across the pond and Crowley shook himself alert, clapping his hands to his knees and standing up, tired and thoroughly annoyed with Aziraphale. 

“Fuck it.” He announced to the duck pond. “I’m going home.” 

When he got back to his flat, there were no messages on his phone or his ancient answering machine, which annoyed him even more. Bloody angel, not even bothering to text. It was entirely possible that he’d been caught up in some book and had forgotten the time. Crowley idly hoped he got a papercut, serves him right. 

Sometimes, he could get really fed up with tiptoeing around Aziraphale. He’d never _said_ anything of course, that would be a Confession and Confessions were, by nature, highly embarrassing. He’d planned to confess his annoying _thing_ for Aziraphale once. It was going to include all the soul-bearing and handholding one would expect from such an event. That this _thing_ had gone on for thousands of years and would go on for thousands more if the angel would allow it. Of course, Aziraphale was even slower on the uptake than he’d originally thought, and the speech had died before it had even started. He was going too fast. Too _fast?_ It had been six thousand years for crying out loud. There was going slow, and then there was _literally_ glacial. 

No, better to keep the _thing_ quiet, and let Aziraphale figure it out on his own, Crowley could wait. 

His grumpiness had finally reached the senses of his houseplants, who quivered before him, adequately terrified. If he’d been in less of a mood, he would have carried on as usual, but being ignored had irked him a little more than it usually should. He glared at them a little harder. 

“ _WHAT_ are you all looking at? Did I tell you to be curious? Get back to growing and _do not disappoint me_.” 

There was another big quiver of despair and Crowley let out a little hiss, satisfied that the Fear of Crowley was still firmly intact. Without kicking off his shoes he flopped onto his bed and decided that now was the perfect time for a good old Strop. So, Strop he did, with a generous side of Mope with a sprinkle of Sulk for seasoning. 

“’Go too fast’” He grumbled, arranging his limbs into a comfier position before deciding to sleep for a week. “He’s going bloody _backwards_.” 

_*********************_  


Waking up a whole week (and two days) later, the first thing Crowley did was check his phone. Much like his plants, Crowley’s phone did not do something stupid like die in his absence, it wouldn’t dare. Its battery fell below twenty percent _once_ and Crowley had never let it forget it. As a result, it was miraculously fully charged whenever Crowley needed it. When there were no messages or missed calls from Aziraphale he frowned. Getting up he padded on over to his answering machine, no blinking little red light. He frowned again. 

Aziraphale was absent-minded, he knew that from millennia of experience, but he wasn’t actually forgetful, as many would have believed. Like most things in life, the angel took the scenic route, only really coming back to the main point when the conversation ended a decade ago. _It was probably just one of Aziraphale’s absent-minded days_ , a voice in his head declared, _absolutely nothing to worry about._

_I’m always worried for Aziraphale,_ another voice piped up. The first one didn’t dignify it with a response. 

Because, _yes_ alright, he was always fretting about Aziraphale, a little bit. You couldn’t help but fret when the very first angel you meet in Eden flat out admits he gave his divine weapon away to the squishy humans and was therefore unprotected from demonic attacks. Well, okay, not _totally_ unprotected, there were Miracles and Smiting and whatnot, but as Aziraphale had proven many times, he wouldn’t actually do those things unless otherwise prompted. Usually by Crowley. For Satan’s sake the idiot hadn’t even thought to protect himself from _Nazis_. It was only natural for Crowley to fret. 

As it was, he wasn’t full blown fretting yet. He’d just pop by the bookshop and pull the angel away from whatever O-So-Wonderous tome he’s found and make sure he was okay. It was alright, just a quick visit.... 

Aziraphale was not there. 

He tried all the local restaurants. Aziraphale wasn’t in any of them. 

_It’s fine,_ the voice in Crowley’s mind chirrped. _It’s fine, he’s just away on business._

After two weeks of absolutely no sign of the angel, Crowley really began to Fret. 

After a month, Crowley began to Panic. 

_*******************_

Aziraphale was gone, there was no getting around it. Aziraphale was gone. Kidnapped, or discorporated, or dead, or- 

_He’s NOT dead!_ Crowley scolded himself, _I’d know if he was._

_Would I?_

“Oh shut it.” He snapped at himself, drumming his fingers on the Bentley’s steering wheel and staring moodily into traffic. The roadworks had been delayed and delayed, put back further and further on the calendar. Aziraphale should have Thwarted that particular Wile when he’d had the chance, it probably would have gotten Crowley home quicker. 

It had been nearly a year and _nothing_. There was no sign of the angel being dead or alive. It was as if he’d been erased from the map entirely. He tried contacting Heaven; he’d tried contacting Hell. Neither had felt particularly inclined to take his calls. Heaven had left him on hold for three days (with a repeating portion of The Sound of Music overture) before politely informing him that no, the angel Aziraphale was not with them and to have a Blessed day. He wasn’t sure if they were lying or not but wouldn’t put it past them, he was, however, mightily sure they’d left him hanging on purpose. 

Hell had been even less helpful, all but slamming the proverbial phone down on him with a spark of Hellfire the moment he identified himself. 

_They’ve done something…_ his mind whispered. 

“I know,” he answered, “but _what?!_ ” 

Crowley was at a loss. How could he launch a daring rescue for Aziraphale if he didn’t even know where Aziraphale was? He didn't even have any clue as to which _they_ to be going after. Aziraphale could be with either one of them. He dreaded to think what Heaven would do and decided he _absolutely would not_ think about what Hell would do to something as soft and placid as Aziraphale. 

A small, traitorous part of his brain suggested that, perhaps, the angel had just taken off without him. It was a poisonous little thought that Crowley fought hard to silence. Sure, he and Aziraphale had had their differences in the past, but not even Armageddon had persuaded the angel to leave. And Crowley wouldn’t have left him for Alpha Centauri, not _really_. It had been a bit of bluster to cover how scared he’d been. He hoped the angel would see through it, all but prayed he’d see through it. 

It hadn’t mattered anyway. In the long run. 

His thoughts turned towards a burning bookshop, almost a lifetime ago, it felt. He hadn’t wanted to feel that sort of fear again, thinking his friend had been burned away into nothing after they’d fought and the _thing_ would never be spoken. He felt the same prickle of alarm now, casting his mind back to remember the last words Aziraphale said to him: 

The angel had only smiled at him in that kind way of his. They'd been to see some opera that evening and Crowley had found it boring as shit, all swooning maidens and not a lot of vengeance to be seen. Aziraphale had obviously loved it, by the way he’d been gushing over the singers. Crowley had said something sarcastic, followed by a flippant “Catch you later.” 

“Of course, get home safe!” Aziraphale had waved after him as he disappeared into his shop. 

Crowley sighed and turned his full attention back to the road. Fat lot of good _that_ did. 

No, he decided, Aziraphale wouldn’t just up and leave, without his precious books. Not his style. 

But _something_ had happened to his friend. Crowley knew it. He growled and gripped the wheel harder, his frustration causing a local water pipe to burst. That would cause absolute chaos amongst the locals later, something that would usually give Crowley a little thrill of the low-level 'Evil Done Well' variety but today he ignored it completely. Freddie Mercury crooned his way out the radio above the engine but it may as well have been white noise. 

Something had happened to his friend, and he was going to find out what. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, running through the supermarket like a child: AZ? AZIRAPHALE??? AZZZZZ?


	3. Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be plot soon I PROMISE-

_Present Day_

Adam Young was a lucky boy. Almost everybody said so, from his parents to his teachers to the postman. It was as if he had been born lucky.

Which, Adam supposed, in a way he was. 

He and his friends never really spoke about what happened at the air base, or all the frightening things that came before it. They didn’t need to. It seemed to come as an unspoken agreement between them that Adam had been having a funny five minutes and they’d all just had a very _weird_ day. 

That hadn’t stopped him from noticing the worried half-glances they threw his way over the years whenever he got a little stressed. They passed quickly, like storms in summer, but the tiny feeling of mistrust lingered. He always felt a twinge of guilt whenever he allowed himself to think about it for too long. However, he couldn’t pull the same stupid tricks any more, and Pepper had told him, very firmly, that she was not above walloping him in the face if he did. 

But that had been nearly five years ago, and Adam was sixteen, practically a _grown-up_ now. It followed a sort of logic that whatever powers he’d had as a kid had stopped as he grew older (though he had been caught more than once trying to move a glass of water with his eyes and a look of constipation, he’d seen Matilda on TV once.) and that he was no longer the strange, reality-warping Antichrist, but a normal teenager desperately trying to study for his A-Levels.

With that sort of knowledge, that he’d once been able to shout down the Devil himself and now couldn’t? It was a miracle he hadn’t developed some sort of complex, really. 

But than again, he was a lucky boy. He might not have been able to bend the world to his will, but Adam was never sure if it wasn’t a coincidence that he always seemed to get things right. Never seemed to injure himself too badly when he fell off his bike or tripped over Dog. Never fell below top marks in school despite not really knowing all the answers to the test questions. It was one of the small details nobody ever truly notices except when it’s happening to you. His parents never questioned his apparent brilliance in the academics, the same way they never really questioned why Adam received a card and some chocolates from someone that signed their cards _‘A and C’_ every year on his birthday. 

_Luck of the Devil,_ he sometimes thought, a little bitterly. 

The only thing that had drawn some sort of curiosity from his parents was the day he suddenly declared that he’d wanted to study Theology and Environmental Science at university. The two classes clashed wildly, according to his father, and Adam had never taken an interest in religion before. His mother had been worried that subjects so, ahem, _niche_ that it might scupper his employment prospects in the wider world, and wouldn’t Adam prefer something broader like business management like his nice friend Wensleydale instead? He’d made a show of thinking about it but decided that perhaps the witch at Jasmine Cottage had a point about the environment. He still wanted to help save the world and make it better; he would just have to go the long way around this time. 

As for the _other_ thing. He’d only shrugged his shoulders and said the subject sounded interesting. He didn’t dare tell his mother about that day at the air base, the day he almost ended the world. Memories of wings and lightning and fire. That his dreams sometimes shook like something large and angry was about to burst forth from the ground and lay waste to the world. Adam wanted to be ready, in case _Daddy Dearest_ came back again.

“I’ll be fine,” Adam had insisted, filing the applications forms anyway. “I always am.”

_*********************_

Something was going wrong. 

He could feel it, like it was an exceptionally nervous butterfly bouncing around his peripheral vision. It was a feeling of apprehension that could very quickly become dread if left unchecked. It worried him. He told his friends as much.

“Actually, it’s quite easy,” Wensleydale shrugged over his homework, “You just add the average-" 

“I’m not talking about _that,_ ” Adam retorted, sitting up a little straighter to reach over to scratch a sleepy Dog behind the ear. “I’m talking about something else. I think it’s coming.”

Brian yawned, smearing a bit of graphite from his pencil across his chin, and blinked up at Adam with confusion. “What’s coming?”

“I don’t know, something big.”

There was a rustle of paper as Pepper sat up from her position on the floor beside them. Her eyes met Adam’s and he knew she’d grasped his meaning.

“You mean, like, _before?_ ” she half-whispered. He nodded.

The two other boys finally caught up. Brian practically leapt up and grabbed Adam’s chin, turning his head this way and that in the amber lamplight of his bedroom like an incredibly enthusiastic doctor.

“You feeling alright? Any smell of sulphur?! I’ll go get Anathema, maybe she can-”

“Get _OFF_ me Brian!” Adam snapped, shoving his friend’s hands away. “I’m fine it’s not _me_ this time!”

He tried not to see the way relief settled on them like blankets or hear the way they breathed out like they’d been holding them. The guilty twinge prickled at his insides again. He pushed the twinge down, focusing on the nagging feeling of worry flitting about his head.

“Are you sure you’re sensing something _else_? You sure it’s not, like, school nerves or anything?” Pepper asked nervously, her fingers twisting around each other in her agitation. 

“Actually, that could be it!” Wensleydale squeaked, the upbeat tone to his voice sounded awfully forced to Adam’s ears. He brought a shaky hand up to push his glasses back up his nose. “Just jitters about homework. We’ve all been there Adam, don’t worry.”

“It’s not nerves about school.” Adam explained, willing himself to sound more patient with his friends than he felt. Brian chewed his lip nervously. “I’ve had school nerves before, but, please, this is _different_. It feels like it did before, but not as strong. It’s not coming all at once like it did last time. I-I think it’s going to get worse though.”

“No, no it won’t.” Pepper said decisively, though there was a slight wobble under her words. “It won’t because you promised it wouldn’t happen again!”

“Pepper, please-”

“No!” she shouted, all but stamping her foot at him. “I told you, you are _not_ going all…all.... all Darth Vader on us again!”

“Actually, I thought Adam was more of an Emperor Palpatine than-”

“Just shut _UP_ Wens!” 

There was a full minute of four teenagers talking over one another, each sounding more and more angry, until Mr Young came barging through Adam’s door. 

“What is all this _racket?!_ ” He demanded. Dog snuffed at him dismissively.

“Sorry Dad,” Adam said sheepishly, feeling a little warm around the ears. The others mumbled their apologies as well, but Mr Young didn’t look entirely convinced. Adam forced himself to meet his father’s ( _Human father_ his mind whispered viciously) eyes and, luckily, Mr Young deflated somewhat and put on a slight smile.

“I know you’re all nervous about school, but please do try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum.” He joked.

If any of the children flinched at the word ‘bloodshed’, Mr Young didn’t notice. He reached out and gave Adam a little nostalgic hair ruffle and closed the door behind him. There was a heavy pause in the room. 

“So…” Brian said lowly, shattering the silence. “Okay, back up a bit. If you’re sensing something, but it’s not _you_ and your, um…. mind-bending magic powers aren’t suddenly retuning or anything, then…. sorry, but what is it?”

Adam sighed, running his own hand through his hair where his father had touched it. “I can’t be sure yet. It’s still pretty vague-”

“Perhaps we _should_ go see Anathema.” Wensleydale piped up helpfully. Adam shook his head.

“No, not yet. Not until I have something more to go on.”

“Wensleydale’s right, though,” Pepper added. “Perhaps you should talk to someone.”

Adam laughed darkly, “What? Like a shrink? Can you imagine me rocking up and going _‘Hello, Tis I, the Antichrist. I’m here to talk about my father…’_ ” 

“I wasn’t suggesting that.” Pepper cut in, a little sharply. “What about those…. _other two_ that helped you last time?”

Adam straightened a little more, mentally kicking himself for not coming to that conclusion first. Of course. They were weird, weirder than a lot of the other weird things Adam had encountered thus far in his life. But they’d held his hands and gave him courage when he was sure the world was going to split apart beneath him. They’d help him, even if they were prone to mess up. 

“You’re right,” He smiled. “I’ll call them.”

_*************************_

It had been a bit of a challenge, digging out their numbers. The angel had scribbled them both down on a singed scrap of paper as they were leaving the air base with a wink and an instruction to call ‘If ever he needed them.’

Adam had only called them once before, and it had been a complete disaster.

He hadn’t meant to call them, honestly. He had been buffeted on all sides with the chaotic, emotional mess that buffeted all teenage boys and, for some godforsaken reason, had decided to ask their help on how to talk to girls.

Even now, he inwardly cringed at the memory. The angel, Aziraphale, had cooed and clucked and was generally soppy about it. He’d recommended poetry and chocolates and music; flowers and all the Romance a young lady’s little Disney-forged heart could desire. He’d also suggested something called the Gavotte and Adam had heard the demon groaning down the phone line at the word. Adam politely declined; a bit too afraid to ask what a Gavotte even _was_.

The demon Crowley, for his part, had simply suggested that Adam bring her the decapitated head of her enemies. 

It had been difficult to explain, over Aziraphale’s horrified gasps, that whilst the idea was, um, _tempting_ , it was probably bad form to decapitate half the school gymnastics team just to impress Rebecca from chemistry. 

He’d then sensibly put the phone down and actively avoided contacting them ever since. 

But _now_ , with the feeling of apprehension still fluttering around him, Adam very nobly decided to bite the proverbial bullet and punch in Aziraphale’s number. He brought the phone to his ears as the lines connected and listened to the soft _brrp brrp_ of the phone.

He waited.

And waited.

Then he waited a little bit more.

Aziraphale didn’t pick up, not even after a full fifteen minutes. Adam frowned in confusion at his friends (who had been perched expectantly on the edge of his bed the entire time, not daring to speak lest Adam began talking) and hung up. He probably shouldn’t have just expected Aziraphale to answer immediately, he imagined an angel was probably a very busy thing to be, what with everybody praying, needing help with their families and such. It was probably a little demanding of Adam, not to mention rude, but he couldn’t help feeling a stab of annoyance. 

_Whenever I needed you, you said. I need to talk to you NOW, mate._

“No answer?” Brian asked, a little unnecessarily. Adam shook his head. 

“Probably just busy.”

“Try the other number.” Pepper said. “He’s the cooler one anyway.”

Adam didn’t bother to correct her. He then dialled Crowley’s number and waited.

Crowley picked up on the third ring. “-Lo?”

“Hi there, um, Mr Crowley?”

“Adam?” Crowley’s voice picked up a little when he recognised Adam’s voice, seemingly happy that Adam had called. The next sentence, however, was pinched with worry. “What’s up? You alright? School treating you alright, no spooky business? Sorry I-I mean, we haven’t been in touch. Been a bit busy. Um, you know how it is. How are your friends?”

“Mr Crowley-”

“How’s the Hellhound? Although, er, I guess he wasn’t that much of a Hound per say was he-?”

“Mr Crowley.”

“Beelzebub’s not being a pain, are they? Creepy little bastard, that one, I always said-”

 _“Mr Crowley!”_ Adam nearly yelled, shutting down Crowley’s babbling. He sounded…nervous, somehow. Stressed. “Sorry, I tried calling Aziraphale first, but he’s not answering. Is he alright?”

There was a quiet pause. “I…I don’t know.”

Sharp needles of alarm slid over Adam’s arms. “What does that mean?”

“I…” Crowley’s voice sounded distant and sad, not his usual sardonic self. Adam glanced up at his friends, who looked a little relived that Adam was finally talking to someone. Brian gave a supportive little thumbs-up. 

“I don’t know where he is.” Crowley finished.

Adam shifted his weight where he sat. “You’ve had an argument again?”

“No! No, I mean…he’s, er, missing.”

“Missing?” Adam wondered aloud. “How does an angel go missing?”

“I don’t bloody _know!_ ” Crowley snapped over the line. “He’s just…gone.” 

Adam was truly alarmed now. If anything, the worrying feeling got slightly worse. A mild pressure was beginning to build behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Maybe it’s connected…” He mused.

There was another pause, this time there was an undeniably sharp edge to it. 

“Maybe _what_ is connected?”

Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure he could put it into words the demon could understand. After all, they were Dreaded Beings of the Pit. They wouldn't exactly put off by feelings of dread and despair would they now? Dread and Despair was their bread and butter. 

“I…”

 _“Adam.”_ Crowley prompted. Adam could just _see_ the raised eyebrows and expectant expression. “What’s connected?” 

“I just…” Adam sighed, and forced it out in one breath. “I just keep having a…a _feeling_. It’s not a nice feeling, but it’s like the feeling you get when you see lightning and are waiting to hear the thunder. It’s like hearing a car crash and knowing it will get to you eventually. It feels like…like something is _waiting._ I don’t know, like the something’s gone horribly wrong and it’s waiting for us to notice. And now, with your friend missing….it just seems…I don’t know…..like it’s part of the same thing?”

He trailed off, almost out of breath. None of his friends moved but Dog let out a low whine when he’d finished, sidling closer to him on top of the covers until his whiskers brushed Adam’s ankle.

For a while Crowley said nothing. Adam was on the verge of apologising for being an idiot and hanging up when the demon spoke again. 

“I’m coming to you. Stay where you are.”

“What?”

“I’m driving to Tadfield as soon as I can.”

He said it so matter of fact that it took Adam’s brain a few seconds to catch up.

“You…you can’t! My dad, I mean, what if Aziraphale turns up?”

“If he does, then I’ll give him a piece of my mind for frightening me like this.” Crowley all but growled down the phone. “But I highly doubt it... I’m coming to Tadfield, I think we need to have a talk with Anathema Device.”

The call ended with an abrupt click. 

“Well,” Wensleydale muttered, “Could have been worse.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Adam said quietly, putting the phone down. He stared at the now blank screen, vaguely wondering if he really made the right decision telling Crowley anything at all.


	4. Gabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there guys, thank you so much for sticking with this! I'm having a blast writing this story and I hope you enjoy it too!

The songs of birds floated on the warm breeze only to be lost amongst the cars and people on the streets of London. A dog barked here and there, further smothering the music. The snatches of conversation and the rumble of engines clashed together, blending into one another to create a perfect blanket of white noise. Unless you closed your eyes and listened, really listened, you would never have realised there were birds singing at all. 

As it happened, there _was_ someone stood on a street corner with his eyes closed, listening to the trills of a nightingale in Berkeley Square. 

Gabriel inhaled deeply, wrinkling his nose a little with distaste as a thousand stenches, human or otherwise, assaulted him. He never personally understood the concept of sweat, finding it a rather disgusting function. Why the Almighty gave them such gross design flaws he could not begin to guess, it was in his job description not to guess the Almighty’s reasoning. 

Not that it mattered much anyway. Humanity’s reprieve from destruction had only been a blip on the radar. It would still come to pass. Pretty soon, there would be no stench of sweat, or of engines or of coffee or of blood or of _anything_ to clog the air. 

Gabriel wasn’t sure what to think about that. He _should_ be pleased that God’s most useless children would soon be wiped out before they could do any more damage to the beautiful home they were given. He had never understood why Aziraphale had been so desperate to save it.

Aziraphale was weak. Gabriel was _not_. 

Still, Gabriel had found himself visiting Earth more and more often. It had been reasoned that at least one of the _Big Four_ should be present among the humans, to root out their weak spots in preparation for the Reckoning. 

And what a Reckoning it would be.

Heaven was going to resume its war on Hell, whether the humans got involved or not. Armageddon _had_ to happen, no matter what the stupid renegade angel or his demonic ally had said. Yes, humans would be slaughtered in the process, but you couldn’t have a war without collateral damage. They would start again when Heaven won. Gabriel would guide the new children better in the new world that followed. Hell would be vanquished, and sin would not stain their efforts again. It would be _better_ , he _knew_ it in his feathers. He glanced around, watching a car go a little too fast around a corner which was followed by muttered cursing from a nearby pedestrian.

They’d be gone. All the smells and the noise, all of it would soon be gone. 

In the distance was a high-pitched shriek of a child’s laughter, settling in Gabriel’s ear like a fly. He mentally shook himself and began to walk. 

He found himself moving through the streets with ease, weaving throughout the crowd like silk. People parted for him unconsciously. A homeless man held a filthy hand out from beneath a pile of ragged clothes to beg for alms. Gabriel felt a tug of pity. God had fashioned himself and his brethren to love humanity above all else. They had tried, really _tried_ , but millennia of watching their cruelty and stupidity had hardened the Heavenly Host. It was like caring for a pet that kept turning rabid no matter how much you attempted to protect it. Humans were so easily swayed and tempted by the Fallen it had, at times, seemed entirely futile to try and save them. You could go mad, watching your love get crushed time and time again. In the end, it had been easier, kinder, for Heaven to allow itself to turn its back.

Yet, hearing the old man’s pitiful voice, Gabriel couldn’t deny the instinct was still there. A young woman popped out of the uncaring crowd and bent closer, pressing some coins into his hands. Gabriel paused, watching the scene. Perhaps that’s why Aziraphale had betrayed them. He had allowed himself to be driven mad by humanity’s almost suicidal cruelty, constantly warring with its sporadic waves of kindness. It was almost tragic, in a way. You can love a rabid dog, but your love won’t stop it from biting you if you get too close. 

Gabriel moved on. Walking past an abandoned bookstore (there had been youths trying to squat in it a few months back that were scared off by _something_ , one had come out with a petrifying phobia of snakes. There were rumours that the building was haunted.) he thrust his hands in his suit pockets. That would be the one thing he would miss, he mused. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with the original flavour robes, per say, but Gabriel found the movement and lines of a crisp, sharp twenty-first century suit more, well, _stylish_.

He nimbly hopped over the curb to avoid a steaming pile of dog faeces. Easier to move in for a start.

_*********************_

Time was a strange thing to angels. Millennia passed more in a theoretical fashion in Heaven than they did on Earth. Centuries were more something you ticked off the celestial calendar than experienced. Time on Earth however, whilst still inconsequential to Gabriel in the grand scheme of things, had more of a presence. Hours wound up and threaded around him like the tiniest gossamer threads. The day was significantly darker when Gabriel paused to look around again. 

He stepped, on a whim, into a human bakery. It's sign proudly said that it belonged to a Mrs Warwicke. 

There were a few people scattered around the place, sat at tables or perusing the food on display. A small girl kicked her legs from where she was perched on a chair, chocolate smeared around her mouth as she gibbered away to her exasperated mother. 

“Hello there! Can I help you?”

Gabriel’s attention snapped to the voice, rarely did a human speak to him directly unless he approached them first. He was facing a somewhat pudgy middle-aged human male with a tangle of hair that was probably once blonde but was now fading into grey. His name badge proudly declared that he was _Nathaniel, happy to help! :D_ and his smile was a placid, genial look of someone that was completely happy if you answered either way. 

Gabriel met his eyes for a few seconds, then he inwardly shuddered and looked away. There was one thing Gabriel could not stomach when dealing with humans, and it wasn't their cruelty or their kindness.

It was their _eyes._

Angels did, as a rule, take human forms for the most part, as it was easier when you had to pop down for the odd miracle. But there was always a small detail about them that marked them out as Other, as _Angelic_. Michael and Uriel had gold decorating their skin, gleaming as they moved. Sandalphon had gilded teeth and Gabriel’s own eyes had a sheen he was aware was not to be found amongst the humans. Even Aziraphale, pathetic excuse for an angel that he turned out to be, had a shock of cloud-pale hair. Marks that they were not fully human, and never would be.

Humans eyes, by comparison, were almost terrifyingly _dull_ to Gabriel. There was no light, no spark in them that was found in Heaven. They had originally been moulded from clay, after all, their eyes still screamed it. To Gabriel, their eyes were flat, stupid, almost _dead_ next to the ones he used to seeing Up There. 

But it wasn’t the fact they were dull that unsettled Gabriel so, it was the fact that they weren’t _completely_ flat and stupid. If one looked hard enough, they would see a gleam, a low level of cunning akin to that of a mean-minded animal before it strikes. You couldn’t put your trust in eyes like that.

There was the same gleam in Nathaniel’s eyes, dull and placid as they were. Gabriel avoided his gaze and made a show of looking at the things on display. He’d been around humans long enough to know they were called ‘cakes’. Humans ate them after their proper meals. There was no real value to them, humans ate them because they were unnecessary and they _liked_ it. 

Without really knowing why, Gabriel began talking. “Uh, yes. Please, I will have the….” he floundered a little, eyes settling on a stodgy block of something pink and yellow in the corner. He pointed at it.

“Ah, the angel cake.” The human calling itself Nathaniel said happily, going around the counter to scoop the item up. “In or out?”

Gabriel didn’t understand the question. “In?” He tried.

“Wonderful.”

Nathaniel placed the cake onto a small white plate and slid it along the counter to in front of Gabriel, placing a small knife and fork with a flourish on top of a napkin.

“Anything else?”

Gabriel blinked. “No.”

If Nathaniel found the answer blunt, or rude, he didn’t show it. Instead he hummed and punched something into a machine before looking back up. “That’ll be two ninety-five please.”

For a moment Gabriel stood mute, not fully comprehending what Nathaniel was asking before it hit him. Of course, humans had an odd trading practise when they purchased material goods, didn’t they? For a second, he toyed with the idea of performing a small miracle to make the human forget him but decided against it. That was the sort of nonsense that the _other lot_ got up to. And Gabriel was above all that, thank you very much. 

Instead, he miracle the correct change into his pocket and fished it out, dropping it into Nathaniel’s waiting hand and waited patiently until the man smiled up at him pleasantly to wish him a good day. Gabriel knew, deep down, that this was the point where he _should_ be getting back Upstairs to report back his findings. He wanted to but found himself sliding into an unoccupied chair to stare at the thing in front of him. He had, not too long ago, dismissed human food as ‘gross matter’, something that he would _never_ sully his holy being with. Aziraphale had seemed confused, and informed Gabriel that it was what humans do, and he was trying to blend in with them after all.

He’d blended a little _too_ well, all things considered. 

Gabriel glanced around, wondering if anyone would notice if he simply sat there and not eat anything. They were too busy wrapped up in their own affairs to notice a solitary man leave his cake untouched. The child gibbered something again and dropped a glob of chocolate cake onto the floor to the mother’s sigh of _‘Oh, Katie!’_. He felt a momentary urge to tell the woman to let little Katie have her fun and her chocolate cake, it wouldn’t be around much longer.

No more cake.

No more _Katie._

The cake sat in front of him, unhelpfully staying silent on its opinions about the impending Apocalypse. Gabriel frowned at it. Nathaniel bustled around to Katie, wiping up the mess and cooing at her, causing her to giggle even harder. They would all be dead soon.

He looked back down at the cake.

Oh, what the _Hell._ One time wouldn’t hurt would it?

Using the little fork Nathaniel had provided Gabriel carefully took a piece off the corner of the cake in the way a bomb expert would cut the wires. He lifted it to the light and examined it. A little crumb fell off and bounced innocently onto the plate. Here goes nothing.

Before he could second guess himself, Gabriel took a deep breath and shoved the tiny piece into his mouth. For a second nothing happened.

Then, the sweetness began to fill his mouth as he forced himself to chew. He felt the matter break down over his tongue as he made it go to the back of his throat. Closing his eyes and expecting the worst, Gabriel swallowed.

Nothing happened. 

Gabriel felt immensely proud of himself for not throwing up on the spot, as it would have been undignified. Angels didn’t generally vomit, as they never had a need to, but Gabriel was ready to do so should he wish to purge the substance from his body as soon as divinely possible. 

As it was, it wasn’t a particularly terrible feeling, the way it settled in his stomach. The taste wasn’t completely awful either, it had left a strange echo after it. 

He idly wondered if the new humans in the world to come would make this sort of cake. Would it class as gluttony. To make something sweet simply for the enjoyment of it? To feed it to your children not for nourishment, but merely to let them have a little earthly pleasure?

Gabriel pushed the thought away, feeling as though that _that_ line of enquiry could only lead to Questions. Questions were Dangerous Territory. Aziraphale had started asking Questions, and look where it had gotten him…

Nobody saw Gabriel vanish from the shop. The cake sat there, barely touched, until Nathaniel cleared the table some minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel: *squashes all his emotions and shoves them into a tiny box to kick away* ANYWAY-


	5. Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back!
> 
> I'm SO SORRY this chapter took so long, life got in the way. Ya know how it is.
> 
> This chapter ran away with me a little bit too, so it's probably a bit more dialogue-heavy than the previous ones. I hope you can be patient with me for a little while longer, I promise the plot will make itself known eventually.

The outskirts of London flew past, blending the world in a blur of what could charitably described as green but was more an oil slick blend of greys and browns as the trees began their inevitable march towards autumn. Or, perhaps, the world was standing just as still as it had always done, and that it was a sleek black Bentley breaking all conceivable speed limits as it roared past the trees. It all depends on the observer.

Crowley barely took note of how fast or slow the surrounding countryside was going, all that mattered was that it _went_. He had no difficulty remembering the way to Tadfield, years being nothing consequential to demons and all. It was as if he’d driven there only last week. It was a nice change, he thought, that the car wasn’t a fiery ball of chaos this time, and the world wasn’t about to explode in mere minutes.

_Probably_ wasn’t, anyway. 

Visiting a former Antichrist and a professional Descendant could well end up being a complete waste of time, his mind supplied unhelpfully. What could _humans_ know that he, a demon from the proverbial Pit, could not?

He sighed, tucking the thought away and chiding himself. He’d been hanging around them for millennia, there was _plenty_ of stuff they knew that he didn’t. It was why he liked them, most of the time. Besides, the one angel that truly gave a shit about humanity disappearing like smoke and now said former Antichrist was having ominous _feelings?_ Some things Crowley just couldn’t ignore. No matter how hard he tried.

“Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence…” he muttered, trailing off. Who’d said that? Some clever little bugger he’d ran into during history no doubt. There was more to that quip, but his mind for the life of it couldn’t grasp onto what it was. Had it been Voltaire? No, perhaps it had been…?

A loud horn sounded suddenly, rudely shoving its way into Crowley’s awareness. He mentally shook himself as he swerved to avoid becoming a nasty looking smear on the road.

He wished, not for the first time, that Aziraphale was here. 

Once he’d checked on Adam and gotten whatever answers he could out of Anathema, Crowley had a plan. It was an absolute shitstorm of a plan, and it went against every demonic fibre of his being to carry it out. But he had to. His fingers twitched on the steering wheel, from anxiety or anticipation, he couldn’t possibly say.

******************

The first thing that sprung to Crowley’s mind was that Adam could do with a haircut. He vaguely approved. There was no aspect of good old Teenage Rebellion more subtle and nuanced than unruly hair. Crowley idly wondered if the Antichrist’s teenage rebellion would be the same as every other teenager, except with maybe more window rattling. He’d be a little disappointed if there was no window rattling.

The unruly hair was now hanging down a little past Adam’s cheeks as he frowned down at Crowley who was, for all intents and purposes, hiding in the rose bush. “You couldn’t have just _knocked_?” Adam hissed.

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. “This is stealthier.”

“Mr Crowley, you threw a _garden gnome_ at my window-”

“Yeah, _stealthily_ -”

“My parents!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” cut in a girl’s voice. One of Adam’s friends – Pepper, Crowley recalled. Her face appeared next to Adam’s, her face a picture of thunderous ire compared to Adam’s nervous frown. “Will you just come up?!”

Crowley didn’t see the point in arguing and employed himself in the art of Shimmying Up the Drainpipe. It was a dying art, not many drainpipes got Shimmied up anymore, more’s the pity. He missed eighteenth century intrigue; all things considered. Aziraphale had, sadly, never shimmied, but had occasionally deigned to lean out the window and haul Crowley up by the scruff of his neck. It had all been very daring, if you’d asked Crowley. 

Neither Adam or Pepper felt inclined to ask him, or to help him up. They just watched him scramble up with twin looks of polite disapproval until he’d managed to rearrange his body into a somewhat upright position on the bedroom carpet. 

“Your parents won’t hear anything out of the ordinary, don’t worry.” He explained, waving his hand absentmindedly and willed up a little miracle accordingly. Adam didn’t look convinced but remained silent. Crowley looked around at the children, noting with only the tiniest twinge of alarm that they had, against all probability, gotten older. Not that they were unrecognisable, he noted, as the one named after a horrible cheese blinked owlishly at him through thick round glasses.

“Right. Um. Hello… kids.” He started, but Pepper cut across him, tutting.

“Oh _please_ ,” she huffed, flinging her arm at each of them in turn, “Adam, Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale. Not that hard.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at that. She’d be a formidable teacher someday, a right old Nanny Ashtoreth if she let herself. He approved of that too. 

“Charmed.” He shot back. She rolled her eyes.

Introductions done, he promptly turned to Adam, who was studying him with an air of quiet worry. Crowley frowned. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but Adam got there first.

“When did Aziraphale go missing?”

Inwardly, Crowley berated himself for not anticipating the question. It was an obvious line of inquiry, but the answer didn’t come immediately to his tongue.

“A-A year or so ago?”

Pepper blinked. “A _YEAR?!_ ” 

Holding up a hand, Crowley stopped her line of questioning before it began. “Yes. A year. No, it’s not unheard off. The angel and I have gone centuries without speaking before.”

“But you’re worried this time.” Brian piped up.

“Yes.” Sighed Crowley, “I am.”

“Why?”

Crowley frowned again. How was he going to explain his and Aziraphale’s big strike from their respective offices like the universe’s tiniest trade union? 

“After…um, _last time_ ….Aziraphale and I….er, had a bit of a ‘falling out’ with our bosses, shall we say, and…um…”

“Wait,” Pepper said, chewing her bottom lip a little as she let the implications sink in. “When you say ‘bosses’, you mean, what, _Heaven_?”

 

“And Hell, yes.” Admitted Crowley.

Wensleydale scratched his head, “Actually, I’m not sure Heaven is allowed to get angry with its own angels-”

“Trust me kid, they can and they _have_.” Crowley explained, with all the patience of a teacher whose charge was being incredibly dense that day, “Why do you think Satan’s always in such a tizzy?”

Adam grimaced a little at the mention of his father.

“In any case, Aziraphale disappeared, to my knowledge, about a year ago.” Crowley continued, peering at Adam from behind his sunglasses. “When did you start all these _Feelings_?” 

Adam thought for a bit, glancing helplessly at his friends. “I-I’m not sure, I think I’ve been feeling it for a while, but I only really noticed tonight.”

“What set it off?” demanded Crowley, a little sharper than he perhaps intended. 

Adam was distraught. “I don’t know. I was sat down with the guys doing homework, and-and then I just, dunno, _felt_ it. I’m sorry!”

It was not the answer Crowley was hoping for, but it one that he half-anticipated. He deflated a little.

“Don’t be sorry, you can’t help it.”

“Do you think it’s connected to Aziraphale?”

“I wanted it to be.”

“But?” Pepper prompted.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly. His fingers twitched again, his plan feeling more and more stupid by the second. “But now I’m not sure it is. What you’re feeling is…Bad. I’m sure it is. Probably a Bad like last time, but I don’t think it’s gonna help me find the angel.”

Adam lowered his eyes, a little sadly. “Oh.”

“Can you help us?” Brian asked worriedly. Crowley straightened with a smile that was only a fraction more confident than he felt, which was pretty much non-existent.

“Of course I can.”

****************

The door of Jasmine Cottage was just as pretty as the rest of it, quaint and delicate. The dark wood stood starkly against the white stone in the rapidly fading daylight. The fragrant flowers that framed it were equally as pretty, purples and greens entwined with the odd brilliant pink. These were garden plants to be proud of.

Crowley noticed exactly none of this as he all but punched the door by way of a polite knock. It was the sort of knock that demanded attention, and not the good kind.

Nevertheless. The door opened.

Crowley had been expecting Anathema herself to fling the door open and demand where exactly Crowley found the fucking audacity to beat her innocent door like that. He was taken aback when her pale, nervous boyfriend peered around the door jamb, blinking blearily.

“H-Hello?”

“Hi.” Crowley greeted him shortly. 

“You’re that, er-”

“Incredibly charismatic and cunning demon from the bottomless Pit and foe of all that is Good and Holy? Yes. Yes I am.”

Without waiting for a response, Crowley sidestepped the man and nimbly hopped inside.

“Um.” The boyfriend protested. 

Crowley ignored him and made his way through the cottage, coming up short when he saw Anathema sat at the kitchen table, arms folded and staring up at him moodily. Her hair was shorter than he’d last seen it, curling artfully along her jawline. There were small bags under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept well at all the previous night. 

“Crowley.” She greeted him.

“Anathema.”

“Um, Newton.” Newton added, following Crowley into the small space. They ignored him.

“Rude of you to come barging into my house.” Anathema pointed out, raising an eyebrow in a manner that brooked no nonsense. 

“Yeah, well, it’s urgent.”

“Yes it is.”

Crowley blinked. “You know something?”

Anathema glanced at Newton, who gave a half-hearted little smile and went to fill up the kettle. Anathema and Crowley had exchanged terse, short emails over the years, Crowley suspected she had never quite forgiven him for hitting her with the Bentley. She’d been far friendlier to Aziraphale, asking for his help with certain occult and prophetic books when her supply had run out. But, then again, Aziraphale tended to be on friendly terms with _everyone_. 

“Let’s just say I have an inkling.”

“Great, love inklings. Almost as good as feelings and senses of foreboding-”

Anathema heaved an exasperated sigh that was accompanied by an equally exasperated eyeroll. Newton busied himself with preparing three mugs of tea, handing one to Crowley, who wordlessly took it and glanced at it questioningly. There was no milk and a quick sniff told him there was no sugar to be found either. Crowley sent a questioning look to both. Anathema placed her steaming mug on the table and gave him a lopsided smirk;

“Aziraphale told us how you take your tea last time he visited us. It may be nearly two years since but thank God Newt’s got a good memory, huh?”

Newton huffed a little, plopping down into the seat beside her with an embarrassed smile. Nodding, Crowley took an experimental sip.

It was just normal breakfast tea, not a single drop of holy water. Just as well, Crowley thought, it’d be an _incredibly_ humiliating way to shuffle off the immortal coil. 

Anathema took a sip of tea and peered at Crowley over the top of her spectacles. “How is he anyway? Aziraphale.”

Crowley winced, his tea sloshing dangerously near to the rim of the cup. He put it down very, very carefully and willed his hand to stop feeling like they were trembling. “Wouldn’t know, he’s gone and vanished.” 

She frowned. “What?”

Newton stared at him. “What, like, a holiday?”

“No. I mean more like kidnapped. Maybe. Probably. I’m not sure.” Admitted Crowley. Anathema and Newton glanced at each other before turning back to him. 

“You think someone took him? Who?” Anathema demanded. 

“I think it might be, er, my lot. But I can’t be sure. He and I aren’t exactly employees of the month in our offices after the airbase now, are we?”

Anathema hummed in agreement. “That’s bad news…but, I think you’re here for something else. though.”

Crowley sighed. “I am.”

“M’sorry,” Newton frowned, eyes darting between the two of them. “You are?”

“I’m here about a certain young former Antichrist.”

Anathema nodded in the way Crowley imagined a scientist would when you’ve verbally confirmed a theory they’d been mulling over all week. She didn’t reply immediately, but took another careful sip of her tea, putting the cup down in one smooth, deliberate motion.

“Why, what’s he done?” Newton asked anxiously.

“He’s not done anything.” Crowley said, “Not _yet_ ” he added darkly.

“Something’s happening.” Anathema declared. “Or, it’s going to happen, maybe has already happened. It’s hard to describe-”

Crowley leaned forward eagerly. “Try me.”

“His aura has changed.”

Newton frowned at her again. “I thought you said you couldn’t see Adam’s aura?”

Anathema shook her head. “It’s hard to describe honey, his aura has remained the same since he was a kid, it’s too big for me to see…. but, it’s _changed_ somehow. Like, the air around him has shifted. It’s…. thinner? Or thicker, I can’t tell. All I know is that it’s…” she waved a hand, searching for the words, “…. weird.”

Crowley blinked slowly, taking her answer in. He hadn’t noticed any obvious change in Adam, save for the usual hormonal angst of the average teenage boy. The last he’d seen of Warlock Dowling; the boy had been going through an even more temperamental phase. If anything, Adam had remained the nice and ordinary boy he’d always seemed. 

_A nice and ordinary boy who used to have reality bending powers and is the son of your boss, don’t you forget._ His mind sneered.

It meant that he had to enact his plan, sooner rather than later.

“Do you know what’s caused it?” He asked. Anathema shot him a dark look.

“Do _you?_ ”

Crowley had to giver her that, he supposed. He was a bit of a crap demon, not keeping up with the latest company newsletter. “Er….fair point.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with Aziraphale do you?” Newton asked, looking at Crowley worriedly. Crowley sighed.

“Adam thought so, but I’m not sure. The changes don’t match. Angel went missing a year ago, and Adam’s only really noticed something’s off over the last few days. If they _are_ connected, it’s a bloody loose wire.” 

“We can help you find him?” Newton offered. Crowley looked at him. He was still the same drip of a lad he ever was, but Crowley couldn’t deny he had a good heart. He may have helped save the world from nuclear destruction, but Crowley wasn’t sure he trusted him to find a tree in a forest.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“We could probably use Aziraphale’s help with this, if you do track him down.” Anathema added, gathering up their now empty mugs, bending down to press a brief kiss to Newton’s hair as she did so. When she sat back down, she sighed an ran her hand through her hair.

“I’ll keep an eye on Adam.” She said, “Let you know if anything major happens, I don’t like not being sure.”

Crowley huffed a dry laugh. “Tell me about it.” 

“Let us know if you find anything about Aziraphale, it’s worrying.”

“I will.” Crowley promised.

“And if we can help. In any way. I’m…. I’m just worried about all of it.” She confessed. Newton reached out a hand and she took it, his thumb tracing a comforting line down hers.

Crowley swallowed, and looked away.

 

*************

Shadwell picked up the phone on the seventh ring. “Hello?”

“Sergeant Shadwell, it’s Crowley.”

There was a scuffling sound down the line which sounded suspiciously like Shadwell had launched himself off whatever he was sat on and was now attempting to stand to attention. Crowley rolled his eyes, sent a withering glare to a particularly mediocre cheese plant, and politely waiting for Shadwell to finish. 

It had been over a week since he’d visited Tadfield, and nothing interesting had happened since. Anathema had texted him about her lack of findings, her text messages just as curt and to the point as her emails. He’d made no progress looking for the angel either. Instead, he’d been preparing for his plan, which seemed more and more like a suicidal idea the longer it waited.

Shadwell had apparently finished whatever his joints had been doing. “Aye Sir, what can I do for you?”

“I need you to do something for me, if you’re up for it.”

“Aye I’m up for it, Sir!” Shadwell all but shouted down the phone. “I may be a bit grey in the face but I’m not _ancient_!” 

“Noted. Listen, I need you to head to the bookshop.”

“The one Mister Aziraphale runs?”

Crowley nodded, then realised Shadwell couldn’t see him. “Aye, I mean, yes. That one.”

“Why? What’s in there, witches? Warlocks? Monsters of the infernal and unnatural?!”

Crowley felt his face scrunch up of its own accord. “Monst-? Sergeant, we talked about this, you know what Aziraphale and I _are-_ ”

Shadwell’s voice huffed a little. “That’s different, lad. You’re not _witches_ -”

Closing his eyes, Crowley slowly counted to ten. He hadn’t seen a reason to stay in contact with Shadwell after the whole Apocalypse nonsense, but Aziraphale had insisted. The angel seemed to have an incredibly weird fondness for the madman, as well as his (in Crowley’s opinion) rather put-upon medium wife. Aziraphale had dragged him to their wedding, a few years back, and had, much like Adam and his friends, told Shadwell that if he’d ever needed them, they’d be there, and vice versa. Crowley had rolled his eyes at the time but conceded that it would probably be worth keeping Shadwell on the non-existent books. 

Didn’t make dealing with the man and his mad theories any easier though. 

“Fine,” He sighed, interrupting whatever witch related rambling the Scot was about to go on. “Yeah, of course, great. Listen Shadwell, I just need you to keep an eye on it.”

“Need something… _exorcised?_ ” Shadwell asked, a shade hopefully.

“No, Protected. I don’t want anything going in there that isn’t Aziraphale or myself. Is that clear?”

“Aye Sir, crystal.” Shadwell replied, clearly fighting to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

“Right, thanks.” 

Crowley paused.

“Give my best to the missus?”

Shadwell’s voice was a tad warmer when he answered. “Aye Sir, I’ll do just that.”

With that, he hung up with a click.

Crowley put his phone down and turned around to glare at the floor of his flat.

“This is _such_ a stupid fucking plan.” He hissed to himself.

The summoning symbol had taken all of three hours to paint, as Crowley had had trouble translating some of the trickier parts. The language had once been an offshoot of Sumerian, but centuries of mistranslation had blurred the specifics somewhat. Crowley hadn’t been sure whether it had required goat’s blood or a virgin’s blood (in the end he’d settled for a virgin goat. A surprisingly tricky thing to come by, he’d discovered.), and the sigils around the circle could be an absolute pain to get absolutely correct. Once, after the Flood, he’d accidentally painted a symbol three quarters of an inch to the left of where it should have been and had ended up summoning a wet nurse instead of whichever low-level demon he’d been hoping for. It had all been incredibly embarrassing.

He’d gone over whichever instruction he’d been able to track down but had mostly filled in the gaps from his own memory. Once he was satisfied that the visual aspect was completed to perfection. He took a few steps and took a deep breath. Not that he technically needed to, it just did a bit of good to steady oneself. Ignoring the warning bells clanging about his mind, he raised a hand and began to chant.

The words, really, were a bit unnecessary. It was one of the things humans never fully grasped when they dabbled with occult forces beyond their understanding. Once you’d laid the groundwork with the right incense, the right symbols and - most importantly - the right amount of _effort_ , everything else was just the equivalent of yelling _“Get your arse up here this minute!_ ”

The symbols began to glow.

It continued to glow for five minutes before there was a supporting sound from far away, like an incredibly grumpy drainpipe. 

“Alright, _alright!_ I’m coming up, you bastard-”

Crowley dropped his hand as a lump appeared in the middle of the circle. The lump was dripping a vicious black ooze that splattered and bubbled on the floor. Crowley did his best to keep his face dispassionate as the stench of rot and sulphur flooded his flat, though his plants seemed to shrink back a little from the assault. The shape writhed with what looked like thousands of maggots squirmed under the surface. It rose, twisting and bulged into a human shape that glared at him hatefully.

“What do _you_ want?” Hastur spat.

“Hey dickhead.” Crowley waved.

“You just wait!” Hastur leered, trying to take a step forward but bouncing back a little when he hit the limits of the circle. “Just wait, they’ll tear you apart! Summoning another demon? You’ve lost it Crowley-”

He carried on for a while in the same vein until he seemed to run out of steam. Crowley raised an eyebrow at some of Hastur’s more colourful threats. Clearly somebody below was beginning to get imaginative.

“You done?” He asked eventually. Hastur continued to glare sullenly at him.

“We promised to leave you alone! What the bloody hell do you _want?_ ” 

“Where’s the angel?”

Hastur blinked. “Eh?”

“Don’t play dumb with _me_ Hastur!” Crowley growled, stalking forward a few steps and reaching for his spare plant mister. There was only normal tap water in it now, but Hastur didn’t need to know that.

The demon glanced at it anxiously, baring his teeth. “You still don’t frighten me.”

“No? I’ll have to try harder, won’t I?” 

Picking up the mister, Crowley gave it a little theatrical wave. So long as Hastur believed there was the tiniest chance he was immune to holy water, his interrogation plan could work.

“Y-You cheated somehow! I know you did!”

Crowley stared at Hastur dead in the eyes and gave a little spritz on the back of his hand. Nothing happened, and he smugly turned the nozzle back to Hastur. “Wanna bet on it?”

Hastur gave a very undemonic little squeak and threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! We haven’t touched the angel!” 

“You must know _something!_ Crowley growled. “Where is Aziraphale?!”

“How should I know? I don’t care where angels go fucking off to! Ask Upstairs if you’re so worried-”

“Oh yeah, _thanks_ Hastur, I hadn’t thought of that!”

Hastur stopped his flailing, lowering his hands slowly to grin nastily. “Worried he’s Fallen?”

The question was like a slap. Crowley hadn’t even considered the possibility. Aziraphale wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ have Fallen. Aziraphale was too good, the best Heaven had to offer. Crowley would have known if his angel had been stripped of the Host in such a painful way. 

_Heaven said he wasn’t with them…_

He shook the thought away. No, Aziraphale would have found him if he’d Fallen, wouldn’t he? Didn’t the angel know that Crowley would be here, would _always_ be here for him? If Aziraphale had been cast out, been burned up in the light year plummet downward, been torn up and spat out by the so called _family_ he served, then Crowley would be there. He’d fly to the angel, if he had to. To heal and soothe and comfort.

To bring Aziraphale _home_. 

With a confidence he didn’t feel, Crowley jerked the plant mister towards Hastur and took a mean delight in the way Hastur flinched. “He’s not Fallen, you’d be pissing your pants in glee to tell me, if he were.”

Hastur shrugged, “Maybe. Like I said, I don’t know where your precious angel is.”

Crowley believed him. He hated the feeling.

Sighing heavily, he put the mister down, ignoring Hastur’s quick exhale of relief. “Then who does?”

“Why don’t you ask the other wank-wings?”

“They’re not exactly a big fan of us lot making demands now, are they?”

Hastur grinned, it was a queasy, oil-slick thing. “Whatever, I don’t really care Crowley. Let me go and do _not_ summon me again.”

Crowley glared at him. “Don’t make me have to.”

“I give my word; I don’t know where he is.”

“I believe you.”

“If you summon me again,” Hastur leaned forward as far as he could, his eyes black and filled with loathing, “I _will_ find a way to kill you.”

“I believe that, too.” 

Stepping forward, Crowley blew out on of the black candles he had lit for the summoning, scuffing a sigil on the floor as he did so. The effect was instantaneous. With a noise like a far-off pipe leak, Hastur’s features began to drip down his face like a melted candle.

“You’re an idiot, Crowley.” The demon crowed as his corporeal form turned in on itself, black pustules forming and bursting in a shower of matter. The smell of sulphur intensified.

Crowley froze. “Why?”

The voice was now gurgling and thick as the ooze filled up whatever throat the blob that had been Hastur now had. Still, the voice was triumphant. “You asked me if I knew where he is…I don’t.”

The shape was now rapidly losing mass. If Crowley’s floor had been made of wooden boards, it would have looked as if it was running between them into the foundations. Crowley couldn’t call him back now; the banishing was too far along. He watched helplessly as the shape that had been Hastur faded away, intangible and formless.

Before the stain faded away entirely, Hastur’s voice whispered out with all the menace of a slamming tombstone;

_“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what happened to him, though…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastur is a horrid little shit ooooh yes he is.


End file.
